don't you breathe (you can't leave)
by wreckofherheart
Summary: Angie Martinelli, from the young agent's perspective. [Peggy/Angie]


**author's note** : I wrote this, because I feel the writers of Agent Carter have forgotten _why_ Angie was a significant character.  
Nevertheless, Angie is, at least, significant to Peggy.  
This story shows how.

* * *

At one moment, you are a lonely soul. Everybody and everything is erased from your life, and, in that one moment, you truly believe this is a permanent derangement.

You are frowned at, looked down on; nobody believes you a woman of war. Merely a damsel, grieving over the loss of a lover. Men smirk in pity, and you are tired, and wounded, and your heart is sore.

It is almost sick, missing the war. Because when there was a war, you were a person; equal. You stood beside men and they took you seriously. Now, it is as if your history, your honours, your heroics––they have all gone to dust.

* * *

Then _she_ happens.

She happens with a smile. An eagerness to know you; you fascinate her, and, for the first time, you are _noticed_. You are suddenly the centre of somebody's attention, their world, and she watches you with adoring eyes and not a second is dominated by jealousy, or hatred, or patronisation. The seconds she offers you are genuine, happy, and they are the sort of seconds you only gained when there was a war.

What she is, you are incapable of putting into words. But what you _do_ know is that she is your refuge; your _only_. She is whom you run to––desperately––when work has been cruel, and your so-called colleagues have dismantled your identity again. She reminds you of who _you_ are; the woman you were during the war; she reminds you what you are worth, and you breathe in how _refreshing_ she has become.

* * *

After a while, she starts to remind you of Steve, and that causes you to cry into your pillow.

She is so like him: young, eager, and, yet, shunned. Too determined with so little potential, and it is heartbreaking. Except, unlike Steve, she does not have a magical machine to make her acceptable to the world.

You fall in love with fragility again; you fall in love with somebody's heart, their spirit, and you are addicted to everything she is.

You _need_ her. Be it simply for her presence, or her smile, or how she bumps up against you when you sit together.

She is your sanity in a dark, lonely realm. What helps you sleep at night; _who_ convinces you that the loneliness you once believed in is, in fact, a temporary break from your brilliance. She reminds you why you grieve, and she tells you that _it is okay_. Feeling emotions, enduring a state of depression––whatever trauma you faced when you fought for the war effort. It is all okay, and will all _be_ okay.

Home, for you, has never been a place. You have never been able to stay _in one location_. It is simply not in your nature, so you have to give home another definition; you have to give home an absolute location, one which shall not move from you; shall not disappear.

You make her your home, be it at her diner, at the mansion you share, or stranded in a desert, a dance in your dreams.

* * *

If sleeping were, indeed, a pleasure, you had not endured such a pleasure 'till now.

Only when she is near, do you _really_ feel protected. And your protector does not require blades, and guns and muscle. Your protector need only be _there_. Your optimism, your happy smile, that innocence you are so drawn to.

Angie looks at you with a dispelling glee; whatever mood you may be in, she is always overjoyed to see you––you matter, because you matter to her.

She'll hold you, _cling onto you_ , her fingers trapped tightly into the fabric of your clothes. Pulling you down with her, so you can lie your head on her chest, and so she can keep you close; forbidding you of any escape, not that you'd ever desire such an audacity. She holds you, and squeezes terribly tight, because if she doesn't hold onto you tightly enough, you might just slip away again.

You fall asleep, her hands in your hair, soothing you to slumber. And it an effortless thing; something she makes beautiful.

* * *

Returning to her, with bloody limbs and bruises, you expect answers and demands and you expect her to give you the look your colleagues give. But, as you should have expected, she doesn't ask. Doesn't dare venture into the secrets you aren't too comfortable to tell her just yet. She doesn't pry.

But she takes you anyway.

Whatever the cost.

Angie accepts your secrets; your kind, sweet lies. She is not like the men you work with, the women you fought with during the war. She is different. She doesn't beg for anything from you. Be it your personal life, your affection, or for you to simply tell her the truth. She gives you everything there is to give, and expects nothing back.

Her touch is tender on your torn skin, and she washes the blood, cleanses your wounds, and covers them up.

And you think it impossible how her eyes can appear so blue, so bright––as vivid as the open sky––when the room is dim, with only a lamp to guide her nursing. You are mesmerised, and she stills you into a haven; a fortress built especially for you.

She is soft after the blows of your enemies, and you suddenly realise that, once, _once_ , there was a time in your life when this wonder of a girl did not exist.

The very thought horrifies you, and, of course, she notices your immediate mood change. Maybe she won't know what goes on in your mind, how she constantly dominates your every thought, but her smile is so tender, it almost hurts. Her eyes like glass, harbouring too many feelings, and she leans over to embrace your aching body.

'I got you, Pegs.'

You grip onto her so fiercely, your knuckles turn white.

* * *

Sometimes, you teach her like you taught Steve; you teach her how to fight. Just in case. Just in case your fears turn true; that she, as well, will vanish and, this time around, you don't think you can handle it.

So she learns from you, with an excited grin and an enthusiasm you recognise all too well.

Angie is a fast learner, and quite agile. You aren't able to teach her much, but, at least, you can sleep at night, knowing that, without you, she at least stands a chance.

That doesn't stop the nightmares from preying at your little head.

* * *

'Tell me things, Peggy.'

Your soul is ready to lunge out; your heart desperate to burst––every part of you wants to tell her whatever she wants.

But you recall Steve, how easy it was to spill your life to him, reveal your scars, what plagues your mind, the abuse of your childhood, and then––

––he just left.

'I wanna know you. Let me know you.'

You love her, of course. You always have.

From the very second you met her, you have always been in love with Angie Martinelli.

So it leaks tears from your eyes, and your lungs feel heavy, and it's as if your world has crashed around you. You reach over and stroke her cheek, and she's too perfect. She is too perfect for you, and all you ever crave now is for her to be happy.

Even if that means you out of the picture.

'Ask. _Please_. Ask about what you want to know.'

Angie is frozen, lips parted, eyes wide. She watches you for a while, and suddenly an exhale passes, and she falls into your arms.

Nothing needs to be said.

* * *

When you kiss her the first time, neither of you are shocked.

The kiss mirrors what she has always been to you, and you to her: expected.

You both expect nothing less than trust; she has been your support, your anchor. The crutch which holds you steady and, without meaning to, you have become her inspiration. Her desire to keep pushing for the dream which is too out of reach. You allow her to dream, and she allows you to sleep.

The kiss is not heated, nor rushed; not in any sense is the kiss haunted or awkward.

You lean over, press your lips against hers, and you both just _breathe together_.

It lasts no more than five seconds, but it is plenty. Her breath tickles your nose when you break apart, only to remain inches together.

Then she smiles; as always.

Angie smiles. For you.

She smiles because you are her joy; and she smiles because she is yours all the same.

'I always knew,' she whispers.

You cradle her face between your hands, rest your forehead to hers, and there is a moment of _relief_.

This is everything you want.

 _She_ is everything you want.

* * *

At one moment, you are a lonely soul. You believe this is permanent, and you are vandalised by fear and misery and anger.

Then _she_ happens, and she _heals_ you. Slowly. Gradually. Patiently.

Reminds you who _you_ are, even when everybody else around you smears your identity; what makes you a soldier.

She is your rest, your dream, your heaven.

And when you kiss her, hold her, touch her, feel her nakedness and her smile, you swear to yourself that if there's one thing you'll never leave behind, never forget, never distance from, it's Angie Martinelli.


End file.
